Grasping for a dream
by Livxx
Summary: Gold could be going mad


Gold has seen Belle in nearly every young woman of Storybrooke at one time or another. So he is not surprised when it happens today, though it still draws an unwanted bubble of emotion from his chest that somehow makes it hard to draw breath. He's walking down Main Street when he spots her, about 20 feet in front. Same height, same hair, same walk.

Unwillingly, he watches her closely; it is both a salve and a brand to his heart all at once and if he hadn't he would have missed it. She turns her head to check for traffic before she crosses. And Gold would know that face anywhere. He spends his nights dreaming of it after all. A new psychosis, he thinks. Perfect. 28 years of talking to himself have finally come to this. He's hallucinating.

She's going his way, or he'd have been glad to turn down any other street to get back to his shop and away from this memory he tells himself. There's no chance this is her. There's no good if she was. Belle would not remember him and Gold is 28 years of cowardice and sadness more broken than when Belle had been able to tolerate his presence.

This woman is obviously not in a hurry to be anywhere, as Gold - though he is _not_ trying - has no trouble keeping up. She strolls along in the afternoon sun, bundled up against the chilly air in a thick coat and jeans with boots. Gold wonders what Belle would say about the fashion in this world.

Then, to distract himself, he wonders where the woman is going, as she's not someone he's seen around town before - and is certainly not his Belle. She slows near an intersection and pulls a folded paper from her pocket. She regards it for a moment while Gold dawdles behind her, keeping his distance. She does look so like Belle and he would quite like to not see her up close and know for certain that she is not his lost love.

Seemingly satisfied, the woman carefully replaces the map in her pocket. Gold watches her movements greedily, so reminiscent of Belle. An old man gone insane, he thinks. About time. Perving on innocent young women in the street, he deserves all the torture he gives himself. She's still in front of him and he wishes she'd turn onto another street. All he can see is the back of her and yet he's painting Belle into her every move.

He wrenches his gaze away. Grips his cane hard. He'll pay for this tonight, he knows, because thinking too hard on Belle brings fantastic, technicolour nightmares. He wishes he could exorcise her from him but he's the only one in this world who remembers her. Belle is dead. His penance for failing her is that he could never drink what he offered so freely to Snow White - especially not after he discovered just what Regina was planning. He deserves every brutal second of this bitter pain, and he shoulders the burden willingly to keep Belle alive in some sense.

The lookalike is out of sight now. He turns the final corner before his shop to see her up ahead, looking up at his sign. His sign. She rings the doorbell and he's about to call to her when she produces a key from her pocket and lets herself in like his shop is her own home.

And like after his last break in, he doesn't fear for the $4,000 genuine Arabian rug or even the solid gold sword at the back of the shop. His heart lurches, for he has left. The. Teacup. On the counter, easily knocked by someone in a hurry to leave after robbing him, for that is clearly what is happening here. His pace quickens with his pulse until he bursts through the door and then for one long moment it feels as though his heart stops.

For there _is_ Belle. Standing in his shop, holding the hand of one of a pair of creepy mannequins while she examines them. And when her eyes meet his there is no recognition there at all.

"I rang the bell," she says. Gold opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish a few times and tries to swallow on a bone-dry mouth.

"What can I do for you, miss...?" he gets out after a beat.

She brusquely ignores the question. "The mayor sent me. She gave me a key as you're apparently notoriously difficult to get a hold of when you don't want to be."

"That may be, but it doesn't explain just what you're doing here." Gods, he tries to inject just some force into those words. Belle does not know him here. She has no use for his gentle tone now, his apology, 28 years and a lifetime after he'd shouted at and shaken her for daring to talk about loving him. Here and now, she has invaded his property on Regina's order.

Belle drops the mannequins hand and steps towards him. Beautiful and regal, even here, even now. His heart bangs against his chest like it's trying to get out and into his hands so he can get down on his knees and present it to her.

"I'm here to talk to you about recent complaints made to the council by your neighbours. Against you."

"Oh, yes?" She's Regina's lackey, then. Sent to do her dirty work with a side order of twist the dagger a little deeper in his gut. Regina is more devious than he gives her credit for.

"Apparently," and she almost smiles at this. Cruel. "You've been skinning children for their pelts."

Gold feels air leave his lungs in a rush. His cane clatters from his grip and he has to reach out a hand to the wall to stay upright. He closes his eyes to stop the room from spinning.

"That one was a quip," Belle tells him, pressing the cane back into his hand and staying close to him, a solid wall of warmth he can feel like the sun on his closed eyelids.

"Are you real?" he asks piteously. A last grasping attempt at sanity.

"Yes," Belle says, and kisses him.


End file.
